


The Pricking of a Poisoned Pen

by alea_archivist (the_aleator)



Series: A Mere Appendix [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Friendship, Fuzzy Science, Gen, Whump, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_aleator/pseuds/alea_archivist
Summary: Watson's hospital visit is uncomfortable for more than one reason; or, there's more than one kind of poison.
Series: A Mere Appendix [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636375
Kudos: 12
Collections: Watson's Woes JWP Entries: 2013





	The Pricking of a Poisoned Pen

“Hello doctor.” Lestrade’s tired voice greeted Watson as he swam up from the pool of unconsciousness. Focusing gum-filled eyes, Watson looked at the Inspector, who looked much wearied and creased, as if he had worn yesterday’s suit two days too long. “You are awake at last.” Lestrade’s even tenor continued, as he smoothed the evening _Times_ over his crossed knee.

“I think I should like to return to sleep.” Watson grumbled, feeling heavy and thick, exhausted even as he lay there. The familiar smell of carboxylic meant a hospital and Watson should have recognized the slat-like feeling of the hospital bed even if he was deaf and dumb. Shifting, Watson put down his hand to rise, despite his light-headedness.

“I shouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Lestrade looked alarmed, and put out one slim hand in warning. Watson agreed, and settled back to his pillows with a sigh.

“Have you been in the wars, Lestrade?” Watson inquired slowly, taking in the bandaged right arm held in a sling, and his general aura of fatigue. Lestrade chuckled softly and responded,

“No more than you, Doctor.” Watson couldn’t help but agree, for besides his general feeling of sickness, he had a stabbing pain below his ribs, no doubt muffled by morphia.

Lestrade regarded Watson steadily as the man drew in his bearings, still pale and wan.

“Do you remember what occurred? You’ve been asleep some three days.” Though his face was even and calm, Lestrade’s voice deepened, and Watson knew it at once for a symptom of his concern, and wondered precisely how ill he had been.

“Malahide.” He ventured finally. “Abner Malahide.” He savored the taste of the name on his dry lips, for it represented part of the memory which he had lost.

“Yes – nasty character, Malahide.” Lestrade agreed, shifting uncomfortably on the chair. “Thought I shouldn’t have thought any less of a reporter.” He finished with a shake of his dark head.

Watson’s snort of laughter woke a penetrating pain in his torso, and he clung to his linens as the fit subsided into a steady throbbing ache. Dark brown eyes held his as he breathed shakily.

“You are in St. Bart’s, if you wanted to know,” Lestrade murmured, “Mr. Holmes has us bring you here after you were stabbed.”

A flash of memory exploded in Watson’s mind, and he said, eagerly, too eagerly, 

“You were following Malahide, weren’t you?” And watched with dismay as a veil fell over Lestrade’s thin face.

“Yes, though I doubt that he shall ever be found.” Lestrade said ruefully, and Watson wondered at the darkness of tone. Narrowing his eyes in concern, Watson seized onto the inspector’s wrist, as if he could drag the truth out of him with his meager strength.

“Where is Holmes?” He said urgently. “Good God Lestrade, tell me he is not hurt.” He clung to the man’s wrist as tightly as he could, and Lestrade answered softly,

“He is quite alright, Doctor. He has been after Malahide ever since you were stabbed. Like a dog with a bone.” Watson relaxed, and released the other man’s wrist, as he said murkily,

“What happened after? You left me with Constable Murcher, I think I remember.” Watson said, and wondered that Lestrade’s face went cool, and silence rose for a moment between them.

“That--” Lestrade said carefully, “I believe is not my story to tell.” The Inspector’s thin face was pinched, and Watson sighed as he smoothly stood, putting his newspaper under one arm and picking up his hat from the bedside table.

“I’ll be off home then. Mrs. Lestrade is expecting me. Good-night, Doctor.”

Watson watched him go with leaded eyes, and settled back to think.

There had been a rash of poisonings throughout London, and Holmes (though he should never admit it) and the Yard were quite perplexed, for there seemed to be no pattern to it whatsoever. Holmes had deciphered at once that it was cyanide poisoning, though as to the why or the how of it he made no sign.

Holing himself up in Baker Street, reading nothing more than updates from the Yard, and consuming little more than tobacco, Holmes had hit upon the solution after three days of frantic energy and Watson had been sent out, in leather gloves, to gather as many of the newspapers of London that he could purchase.

It was an ingenious method of poisonings, Holmes had proclaimed, turning the sheets carefully with a pair of chemist tongs, to add cyanide into the newspaper ink, and absorb it through the skin. Watson had thought it rather gruesome, and said as much to Lestrade, who just sighed softly.

Abner Malahide was the third-rate editor of a second rate newspaper called _The London Critic_ which was notorious for being a rag, and useful only for wrapping bits of fish at the market. But nevertheless, this was the paper that contained the poisoned ink. Holmes had looked at it with interest, and then said memorably to Watson

“It is often said that the caliber of a man may be know by the sort of press that he frequents. This, indeed, Watson, is all the proof of it necessary.”

Nothing had been made of a search at Malahide’s offices and so a raid had been decided for the _Critic_ ’s factory and printing press, and so Watson and Holmes had elected to go along with Lestrade and his men at once that very night.

The factory was dark, and eerily silent, for each metal leviathan did not move, and the only sound that was to be heard was the faint whispering of paper sliding against paper. The men had spread out, each with his own dark lantern, to search for Malahide or anything that was to be found.

Watson had crept amoungst the silent giants of the printing press and into the vats of ink, and he had, he remembered, disturbed Malahide at his work. He had been unable to even cry out before Malahide was upon him, and a spear of agony had spreadbelow his ribcage as the other man rushed out of sight.

He remembered the sight of Holmes’ impassive face, and Lestrade’s, heavy with the lines of worry, and the sound of Murcher’s deep breathing in the quiet of the factory as he lay and bled, able only to wait.

Now was much the same, except that he was at here, in hospital, and he forced hard-won patience on his energetic soul for a long convalescence at Baker Street, punctuated by Holmes’ heavy-handed attempts at subtle nurse-maiding, Mrs. Hudson good-natured fussing like a mother hen, and Lestrade’s quiet and all too short visits.

It was his fate to endure the unendurable, he supposed, and let himself slip easily into the arms of Morpheus.

Detective Sergeant Hopkins was the Yarder with the most outward interest in Holmes, and it was not unexpected that he should see Watson as mutual friend, and come to visit upon the next day.

“Hello Doctor.” Hopkins called cheerfully, all neat lines and willowy grace. “Lestrade said that you were up for receiving visitors.”

“Yes, and quite hoping for them. I learned early that hospitals are quite tedious.” Watson said, _sotto_ voice.

“Well, there has been no news of Malahide.” Hopkins replied, removing his hat from his fawn hair and settling it on his lap. “Though I thought you should have known more than we at the Yard, given Mr. Holmes.” He laughed, and turned puppyish blue eyes on Watson.

“No, I’m afraid not.” Watson apologized with something of unease, and then continued, “I don’t suppose you could tell me what happened after I was…” He said, hoping to disguise his curiosity with confusion.

“Stabbed?” Hopkins said, bluntly and settled forward, elbows on his knees with a look of intentness. “Well, Mr. Holmes and Lestrade gave chase, of course, into the street. I was behind, you see, so I had a good view. They were right on Malahide’s heels, and I guess that he was worried, for he sprang for the nearest rooftop as if he could fly. I followed as swiftly as I could, and so too Mr. Holmes and Lestrade and all the rest, but I’m afraid Malahide escaped us.”

Watson narrowed his eyes, and said quizzically, “but if you were so close, how did Malahide escape?”

“We didn’t expect it, you see.” Hopkins narrated uneasily, and Watson was quite frustrated with how Hopkins was telling his story in bits and parts, quite out of order, and itched to get his hands on a proper pen and paper. “I stayed on the street, in case Malahide tried to get down that way, and so I could see it all. He flung a stack of chimney pots, and I’m afraid Mr. Holmes took the brunt of it, for it flung him clean on the roof, or near to it. He was holding onto the roofing with but the tips of his fingers, and naturally I ran as fast as I could to help, but by the time I had gotten there, Malahide had flown away into the night.” Watson’s curiosity prickled at the suspense, for something of the tale was yet untold .

“Why didn’t Lestrade catch him? You said he was right at Holmes’ back.” Watson pointed out reasonably, and scrunched the linen in his fist for good measure.

“He couldn’t.” Hopkins stammered, and then said, “hasn’t the Inspector told you this already?” At Watson’s head shake, he flushed and put one hand on the other. “Well, Lestrade lifted Mr. Holmes on the roof, though how he did it I couldn’t say. Mr. Holmes is lucky that the Inspector is as strong as horse, and bloody-minded as a mule.” Hopkins went quiet, and his lips quirked into a frown under his tidy mustache.

Watson winced, for he could picture the scene all too well, the little man pulling Holmes up over the rooftops, rather than chase after Malahide, and could see in his mind’s eye the remnant of the incident, the bandaging on Lestrade’s arm, and how the roofing slate must have cut into his flesh. How Holmes must have berated him, for saving his life and letting Malahide flee.

It was most like the Inspector, not to mention it, particularly if it had to do with Holmes.

Hopkins stood and put on his hat, uneasy that his visit had turned into an interrogation, gave a mild good-bye, and shut the door silently behind him.

It was a day and a night before Watson received any more visitors, and he occupied much of his time with drowsing, and fitting together the facts as he knew them.  
  
"Hello Holmes." Watson called softly. "How goes your search for Malahide?" He said to the tall, thin figure as it eased its way into the chair beside his bed.  
  
"Poorly, but not as poorly as you are, Watson." Holmes scowled, as he drummed slender fingers on his knee, tucked up beside him in the armchair.

“I have heard that the chase turns dangerous.”

“You are evidence enough of that.” Holmes said mildly, and continued “I had thought Malahide clever, to use such a method, but I had not thought him this clever, indeed, it has all the hallmarks of a certain, other gentleman with whom I am not unacquainted.”

“Yet the litotes of such case are quite present, are they not, that the writer of our detective duo should be pricked by such a poisoned pen? It has all the hallmarks of a penny dreadful, or a yellow-backed spectacle.” Holmes jested, and Watson was discomforted by the jest, for he was reminded sharply that Holmes’ jesting all too often meant another man’s misfortune.  
  
"Quite a clever and indeed ironical method of murder, that the sharpened nib of Malahide's stick pen should act as a conveyance in order to penetrate and disperse the cyanide ink." Holmes said, keen with fascination. "Such a unique weapon would be well-suited to my collection at Baker Street." Watson took a deep breath as he placed one limp hand on the wad of bandaging on his side, where Malahide's weapon had stabbed him, and poisoned him in the deep muscle.

Perhaps aware of the discomfort that he had brought, Holmes turned grey eyes onto his roommate, and stared steadily for a few seconds as only the sound of the linens rustled between them.  
  
"Yet I think that we shall not have seen the last of this certain man." Holmes said offhandedly, and Watson shivered.

**Author's Note:**

> JWP #17 - alliterative woe for Watson. This contains fuzzy science & research, and also - plot, what plot? You've been warned!


End file.
